Tales from Howling Hall
by Racing Co
Summary: Fellow Healers despised Damocles Belby for his arrogance and admitted genius, but none ever envied him. Assigned to St. Mungo's little-known ward for treating werewolves, Belby faces death and failure each time the full moon rises. A series of one shots about the creator of the Wolfsbane Potion.
1. Prologue: The Banquet

He was certainly not the oldest man in the room. Not by a long shot.

According to the evening's printed program, Damocles Belby turned fifty seven as of a week ago. But the moment the wizard stepped up to the podium for his opening statement, anyone could clearly tell this: he was the most world-weary man working in the hospital.

St. Mungo's and the Ministry of Magic had jointly selected the eclectic but unquestionably accomplished wizard as their Healer of the Year mostly out of necessity. No matter the committee's personal feelings toward Belby as a human being (if he was human at all), he did invent a landmark cure in November: the Wolfsbane Potion.

No wizard in history had ever found something to civilize those monsters until Belby had stumbled upon the answer. For that, he at least deserved a dinner in his honor. Everyone grudgingly admitted as much.

Belby shuffled his papers in front of the St. Mungo's crowd, as if he'd lost his place before even beginning. It was a nervous tick in the expansive silence of the great hall. Clearly the Healer rarely - if ever - addressed a group larger than three or four. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"I suppose I should be thanking everyone here this evening," Belby began in an officious tone. "I never expected that I would have the opportunity to discuss a working lycanthropy treatment publicly. In fact . . . only a year ago, I was an absolute failure. I was certain beyond doubt I would never find an answer to the centuries-old problem: can you tame the beast?"

He breathed deeply before continuing, clearly working out a few more nerves.

"I have spent the last thirty years of my life spending one night a month in absolute secrecy . . . in the darkest, most forgotten ward of St. Mungo's. It is officially known as the Stokely Ward, but we called it the 'Howling Hall.' Without the Ministry even knowing it, we've treated our lycanthropy 'patients' there for heaven knows how long. Centuries probably. We've never kept records. The paper trail alone would put a thousand wizards in Azkaban.

"The wild risk we took if one of those patients ran wild through the hospital corridors! Imagine that horror for a moment. Having been attacked but - mercifully - not bitten and infected myself, I can only guess what damage would have occurred if something had gone wrong, even for a moment."

It was hard not to gaze at the Healer's disfiguring scars that ran the length of his face. Few had ever seen a werewolf in person but could imagine the horror all too well just seeing the decades-old consequences of one that broke away. Many were unapologetically staring, wondering what that savage moment was like when the Healer had nowhere to run.

"No question the risk was worth it," Belby continued as he pointed at a deep claw-marked scar for effect. "The beast can be tamed. It is not cheap, but it can be done with the Wolfsbane Potion."

"It is one thing to ease the pains and uncontrolled ferocity in transformations, but I say there is another age-old question when dealing with lycanthropy. It's a question that's less pleasant to answer. It is this: if you can tame the beast, does anyone care?"

There was another pause. This time it was a purposeful one. Like a professor waiting an uncomfortably long time for an answer in class but no hands were raised.

"We are all Healers here. Of course we care! Everyone cares! We're supposed to, but ask yourself truly: do you care? You'll all say 'yes' to that because that's the nature of your profession, but deep down, you know what werewolves can do. They bite. They kill. Sometimes willingly, sometimes not, they will develop a taste human flesh. Sometimes the beast is a killer at heart but sometimes . . . oftentimes, it's family.

"Who hasn't heard the tales of Fenrir Greyback, who lives only to infect as many witches and wizards as possible? He is the most extreme example of lycanthropy. The man-eating culprit is often an otherwise normal witch or wizard except for when the moon is full. Imagine if the 'beast' is actually your seven-year-old son or daughter. I've led children that young to their cells on transformation nights."

The words summoned a gasp from the crowd. Everyone belonged to Damocles Belby at that moment.

"The issue of what to do is complicated, fellow Healers. It's a question that goes beyond Healing. Beyond these walls. We must answer this for ourselves in our hearts. We must answer it together as a society. The Ministry itself must give an account as well.

"Do we continue treating those with lycanthropy like animals? Or at best, like common criminals? Most of them can't find employment because of the Ministry. Without work, they cannot afford the treatment they need to remain docile during the cycle. They can barely rub coins together to afford food and maybe a shelter. Too many of my patients are forced to live in the woods and run wild when the moon is full."

Belby gripped both sides of the podium fiercely, practically shouting his final remarks to a stunned audience. "My cure, my solution is impossible so long as we deal with them as things of nightmare instead of people! It's disgusting. You all sicken me! I wouldn't be wearing these green robes alongside you hypocrites were it not the fact that I'm so blessedly brilliant at my job!"

As if suddenly remembering why he was standing there, Belby quickly mumbled his anticlimactic conclusion with a hint of sarcasm, "And again . . . thank you for this prestigious award."

Damocles Belby's condemning words hung in the rafters of the hall long after he had found his seat at the table of honor, surrounded by committee members who had secretly loathed him but now outright hated him.

If only the pen could capture the murmurs of the crowd. The bluntness both frightened and enraged as furious half-sentences spewed disgust while a few witches wailed agonized cries of pity that echoed around the banquet hall. With a loud grind of chair against flagstone, a few Healers stood and marched out of the room.

"Only that idiot would use the one night we would ever possibly honour him and use it as an opportunity to insult everyone," one witch Healer marveled from a back table as a Ministry official desperately tried to restore order.

"Told you no man is like Belby," an elderly wizard replied, a hint of pride in his voice. "No man is more self assured. No man more demon possessed. Admittedly . . . no man is more brilliant either."

Then he gave a dry laugh. "I'll bet St. Mungo's never asks him to speak again!"


	2. 1987: The Discovery

**_(Author's Note: This is the story that started this whole series of one shots concerning the life and times of Damocles Belby, creator of the Wolfsbane Potion. It was for a challenge on Mugglenet back in 2009. Still have to give props to my beta on this one, TheCursedQuill.)_**

The calendar did not lie.

Tonight would be another one of those nightmares. Damocles Belby could scarcely rest his head on a pillow any other night for fear he would wake to the shrieks of those inhuman beasts down the corridor. The tearing. The clawing. The violent beating at the wooden doors and barred windows.

Thank goodness for Firewhisky, Damocles mused as he sat down wearily at his desk, the position not a single Healer envied.

He worked in the Howling Hall.

"Master Belby, Sir, my instructors have sent me down here for duty tonight," a young witch said nervously as she handed him a neatly folded sheet of parchment. "This is the Stokley Ward, correct?"

Grunting a reply, Damocles took the letter and looked up at her with tired eyes. Though she was wearing the crossed bone and wand, she could not have been far removed from Hogwarts. He noticed her repulsed expression, seeing her eyes fixated on his horrible scars. She would be witnessing much worse if she was scheduled to stay the night.

"Do you find something unpleasant about my face, Miss?"

"No, it's just that — I don't believe I — well, what happened?" the witch's voice faltered clumsily. It was painfully obvious she was just out of school. She'd never seen any "real" stuff before. It was one thing to cure a measly gnome bite; it was quite another to attend to the monthly terror.

"They happened," Damocles pointed down the silent, dark passageway. Still empty, but not for long.

"They happened?"

With a dry, humorless laugh, Damocles reached into his dusty drawer and pulled out his most steadfast companion on these nights: the bottle. He ran a habitual finger along the deep, disfiguring scars as he searched for the right words, hearing a quick intake of breath from the girl. "Don't you know what you've been assigned to? Miss, Miss, what was your name —"

"Anne Brewer."

"Yes, Miss Brewer, your supervisors were playing quite a trick, you see," Damocles said knowingly as he began pushing papers and books around his desk in search of his wand. Where was that accursed stick when he desperately needed to use the Bottle-Opening Charm?

"Sir, what sort of trick?"

"You see, you've been assigned to the Howling Hall," Damocles answered. "Our guests should be arriving any minute."

Like clockwork, the "guests" of Stokley Ward would arrive and check-in to their rooms for the evening, as if St. Mungo's was operating a tavern rather than a place of Healing. Of course, when it came to these patients, there was no hope of Healing. Only coping. Even then, it was difficult.

There was a time that Damocles thought he was the answer to all the monsters' problems. After all, it was really just one problem, and he was probably one of the most talented Potions Masters to enter St. Mungo's gates in years if not generations. Because of the advances in the Potions field, everyone said he was the solution to thousands of years of suffering.

Hopes had been so high, and he had fallen so low.

Year after year Damocles had faced his failure once a month. He'd been unable to produce the cure-all. None of his potions reversed the symptoms; nothing halted the terrible transformations. As long as he lived, he knew he would never forget the noises, the grotesque morphing of skin and bone as the full moon cast its light past the barred window. The shouts turning to howls.

Damocles became a Healer because he had wanted to help. Perhaps the worst part of his job was that he had not done anything to repair the damage.

He always remembered his first year on the job when that mother and father had brought in their little boy for the first time. Bitten by that insane lunatic, Fenrir Greyback. That man-beast was the reason half his patients returned to the Howling Hall each moon cycle. Usually the only time young witches and wizards were exposed to the bite was when a family member was cursed, and the parents would be too embarrassed to bring in their son or daughter, preferring to take care of the "problem" themselves. Though that method rarely lasted many cycles.

Greyback had done his best to end that long-standing notion that lycanthropy was just a family problem. The Lupins had upset the man-beast, and there was punishment. But why did the punishment have to strike Damocles as well?

That boy — the Lupin boy — was so frightened that first full moon that his small hand shook mightily within Damocles' grip as he led him slowly down the hall. He still recalled those baleful eyes peering back at him in stony silence through the tiny slits in the oak door as Damocles slid the final, well-oiled bolt into place.

The guilt was overwhelming whenever Damocles had stared at that young face, the look that seemed to taunt him. To dare him to produce the Healing potion. Luckily, the boy left after a few years. He must have been the right age to attend Hogwarts after his final visit, but surely the Headmaster did not admit him! Then again, that Albus Dumbledore was a different man all together.

"We'll find a cure some day," Damocles had calmly reassured the teary-eyed mother after each time he had secured the final lock. Of course, the witch had trained as a Healer herself some time ago and must have seen through the optimism. He'd always echo the same empty promise when she returned to pick up the scratched and shaken-looking boy in the morning.

Another failure.

At last, the first patient arrived. The stately wizard had been coming into the secluded ward for years, rarely saying a word. His condition was both embarrassing and dangerous to his household. Though he'd tried dozens, or perhaps hundreds, of Damocles' remedies, nothing helped.

Damocles did all he could to lessen the pain — and the insufferable lack of inhuman control — for the old wizard. In the end, Damocles did all he could: he kept the man's secret. He'd seen pictures of him in the _Daily Prophet_ on occasion; he was an important man at Gringotts. A banker with a happy, otherwise-normal family.

"How are things?" Damocles asked conversationally, lifting a brass ring of keys from a hook on the wall. He began leading the wizard down the hallway, hearing the soft footsteps of Miss Brewer following them. Let her watch.

"It is still the same, Damocles," the wizard answered wearily. He stopped at the doorway and pulled his wand from the deep sleeves of his robe. "Are you nearing a real treatment, Damocles? I heard you were nearing a break through."

"I've had many near-misses," Damocles said, not disguising the disappointment in his voice as he took the wand from the wizard's hand, all according to time-honoured protocol. "I hope to find the solution. It's been my life's work . . . which so far has seemed a waste. Sometimes I feel no closer now than I was when I started."

"I was a young man then."

"So was I."

There was an awkward pause because there was nothing more to say. It was an unsolvable problem. The wizard stepped back into his room, and according to monthly tradition, Damocles shut the heavy, oak door behind him and began bolting the complex locks. One. Two. Three. Four. Five bolts in all.

"By Merlin, Master Belby! What are you doing?" Miss Brewer hissed.

"Werewolves."

Miss Brewer froze and nearly dropped her wand. "What? Those are the patients?"

"Yes. The Stokley Ward deals in werewolves, Miss Brewer, and you'd do best to remember the five locks," Damocles said as he pointed to his face, eliciting another gasp from the young witch. "I learned my lesson, and I pray the same does not happen to you. Though we are in St. Mungo's, there is only so much the Healers can do if you are not found in time."

"So, you were not contaminated?" Miss Brewer questioned.

"Obviously not, or I'd be putting myself in a room right now — don't think I wouldn't!" Damocles said warningly as he rummaged through his lime-green robes until he found his pocket watch. "I've seen what the man-creature can do. One of them broke through the door one night. I was alone. Just managed to pull out my wand and hex him before I lost anything more than my . . . charming features. It's the bite that does the curse, not the claws, as I'm sure you know.

"I've not worked alone on a full moon again."

Silence lapsed between the two of them while Damocles met with the incoming patients, tucked away their wands in a glass-enclosed case, and led them to their separate rooms. He meticulously cleaned each chamber after the full moon, but there were still deep scratches etched into the walls and other reminders of what the guests would soon become.

With a deep sigh, Damocles flopped down into his study chair, sending a plume of dust upward. He coughed and eagerly uncorked the Firewhisky. He Summoned his faithful tankard from across the room and caught it deftly with his free hand. Before toasting himself to another night of sanity, he thought he would be polite.

"Drink?"

"No, I'm quite fine, thank you," Miss Brewer said quickly. "It's against, the rules to drink on the job, you know."

Damocles arched his eyebrow, an expression that made his face look even more distorted. He'd seen it in the mirror many times. "Against the rules? You're in the most lawless part of the entire hospital."

"So I see . . . which makes me wonder this, Sir: wouldn't the Ministry forbid the hospital from aiding werewolves?" Miss Brewer asked quietly, pulling up a wobbly chair next to Damocles' desk.

"Yes, ordinarily, but we at St. Mungo's keep our silence, even from the Ministry," Damocles answered. "That's the first rule of business in this ward. It's possible that even your supervisor doesn't know what really goes on here once a month."

"But isn't it dangerous? Just look at yourself in the mirror!" Miss Brewer said, having lost all her shyness from a few minutes before. Typical girl just out of Hogwarts. Brash and lofty-minded. Probably a Gryffindor.

"You haven't even seen the show yet, and you still judge!" Damocles said sharply. "Don't think I haven't been haunted by what would happen if one of those things got loose in another ward. No amount of Obliviating could scrape that vision from my mind. However . . . where else can these people turn?"

"To their families?"

"No! What's a family member supposed to do when their little boy turns into a monster?" Damocles said, thinking back miserably to that Lupin child who had made this ward his home during the full moon. He shook visibly and reached instinctively for his tankard. "Parents aren't willing to restrain their children in the ways . . . necessary, and adults who are inflicted don't want to do anything that would embarrass themselves or hurt others. No, they're safer here. In little rooms with bolts and magic to keep them from people."

Damocles took a large gulp of Firewhisky, feeling the familiar burn race down his throat. He exhaled a large, perfectly-round ring of smoke; it had taken him years on the moonlight shift at Stokely Ward to produce such an unnecessary skill. Miss Brewer ignored the feat, as he knew she would.

"How long has this werewolf project been going on?" she asked, still keeping her voice soft, as if the patients would be offended by her curiosity. He looked at her a few moments; she was interested now.

"Generations, perhaps?" Damocles answered with another question. "It's not as if we've been keeping close records of our possibly questionable activities."

"But what if the notes and records led to the answer?"

"I'm starting to believe there is no perfect 'answer,'" Damocles said flatly, feeling that terrible exhaustion and guilt well up inside of him. "I can't find a way to prevent the cycle."

Miss Brewer nodded; her face looked full of ideas. "What if you just invented something to lessen the symptoms?"

"To make a werewolf docile?" Damocles finished her thought. Perhaps this young Healer was not quite as dense as he had originally suspected. "That is the only solution, I think. The actual brew, however, is a little more complicated . . . I've been working on it my entire career."

He pointed behind his desk to a shelf of bubbling cauldrons, each emitting different colours of smoke spiraling up towards the gloomy ceiling. Damocles had long passed the point of trying potions that made reasonable sense; he now tried everything in hopes that something would work. Praying something would work. He had even started a few potions using aconite, the magic herb that tamed the beast, according to ancient legend.

Wolfsbane was its other name.

Miss Brewer stood up and studied the potions with an inquisitive eye. "They all contain aconite, don't they? That's a poison . . . isn't it?"

"Sometimes . . . but only certain kinds and if used incorrectly, Miss Brewer," Damocles responded. "When prepared properly, it has important magical curing properties."

"Oh, I've read the Muggle stories about how they would use aconite to test whether or not a person was a werewolf," Miss Brewer said knowingly. "Do you really believe in all that nonsense?"

"Maybe there is some truth to the folklore."

"Master Belby, you brew according to old wives tales?" Miss Brewer looked as if she was about to laugh.

"I have to rely on the old wives," Damocles said with a grim smile back. "You see, I've tried everything else."

The bottle of Firewhisky was nearly gone. That only meant one thing: the transformation was only a few minutes away. After years of working in Stokely Ward, Damocles had the routine down to an art. Sometimes he felt as if he could sense the moon's presence just like the patients behind the bolted doors. He reached forward and took hold of his wand. And waited.

"Any second now," he whispered, which caused Miss Brewer to quickly jerk up from a Healer's tome that she had discovered a few minutes ago in his bookcase. She had taken the book from the shelf and began reading without asking. No doubt she was a brash Gryffindor.

"Do you mean the werewolf cycle is about to begin?" Miss Brewer asked with genuine curiosity. Or was it just eagerness to see the strange and bizarre? And it would be bizarre. Damocles would not be the least surprised if the young Healer fainted from the noise alone.

Damocles held a hand up for silence as he peered down the long, dark corridor. It was a clear night, which always promised stronger transformations. No one had fully understood the moon's role in lycanthropy, but he had his suspicions. He had studied the victims long enough.

A silver beam of moonlight pierced through the barred window at the end of the hallway, casting long, lined shadows across the ward. Suddenly, it was as if everyone had taken a collective breath; all was silent for a moment.

"It's here!" Came the anguished, raspy cry from one of the patients.

Those were the final distinguishable words as the ward erupted in shouts of fury and pain mingling with the sound of bodies hitting the floor and transforming into grotesque beasts. A frightful chorus of all sanity being lost. The human screams had morphed into wet snarls and chilling howls, the noise reaching an almost unbearable crescendo.

The doors began to buckle and shake violently as the patients battered at them, howling and snapping their jaws wildly as the doors strained but did not give way. They smelled blood. They sensed prey. They wanted to bite.

The hairs stood up on the back of Damocles' neck. He could never shake the feeling that he was the rabbit, the defenseless creature who could only bound away.

He glanced over at Miss Brewer, who had clasped both hands over her ears. She was trying to squeeze her eyes so tightly that her face looked as distorted as his. If he was younger, he would have treated her with contempt for showing fear, but ever since the attack, he could never mock the repulsion and the overwhelming desire to sprint from the Howling Hall.

He poured the last of the Firewhisky into a spare goblet and pushed it across his desk, tapping her shoulder lightly as he stood up. After a gasp of surprise, Miss Brewer opened her eyes cautiously and took the goblet without saying a word, draining the contents in a second and hiccoughing an unladylike puff of smoke.

No drinking on the job indeed!

The transformation was the most startling part of the evening, but now came the most dreary: listening to howling and clawing and endless beating against the walls. Damocles lit his wand and began walking down the corridor, leaving Miss Brewer at the desk. He paused in front of the first patient's room, the important wizard from Gringotts. If he was a braver man, he would dare to peer through the small windows at the top of each buckling door. However, he had lost his nerve ever since he had almost lost his life.

There was a sudden, loud cracking noise behind him.

Damocles whirled around at the sound of splintering wood to see a door breaking off its hinges. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. All the locks had been yanked from the wooden frame as a werewolf broke free from the prison of the patient's room, heading straight for him.

No, not him. The man-beast turned and started running straight for her.

"Look out!" Damocles shouted over the howling din.

Everything was going terribly wrong. Miss Brewer sat frozen on the spot, eyes staring blankly ahead as the werewolf headed straight for her, knocking over chairs and bumping against unkempt shelves. There was no way she'd be able to lift her wand in time, if she even had the sense to do that!

There was hardly a second to do anything at all. Any mistake, any failure to act, would most certainly cost Miss Brewer her life. Wand in hand, Damocles sent his boiling cauldrons of experimental potion flying at the werewolf. The first two clunked to the left then the right, but the third hit its mark with a copper thud, drenching the beast with its volatile contents.

The werewolf turned on the spot and looked back at Damocles, its wild eyes strangely unfocused. It wobbled on its legs for a few moments, tripping ungracefully in the pool of spilled potion. With the werewolf stumbling around in a disoriented daze, Damocles stepped forward and stunned it with his wand.

Gasping for air and trying to catch his breath, Damocles was absolutely bewildered by it all. What had stopped the beast? Surely the impact of the cauldron would not have caused the werewolf to halt in its tracks. At least not for long.

"Master Belby . . . why you saved — I, I could have died! I. . ." Miss Brewer stammered and trailed off, looking as if she had just recovered from being Petrified.

"Go get help," Damocles instructed Miss Brewer as he kept his wand at the ready, looking down at the werewolf. The poor, demonized patient. Miss Brewer nodded once and stumbled backwards for a few paces before disappearing from the Howling Hall.

Now alone, Damocles continued to marvel at the werewolf, still collapsed and breathing steadily. The colourful steam of the potion continued to rise from the flagstone floor, circling around the beast before slowly disappearing. The potion continued to seep across the floor, threatening to ruin some rolled parchment by his desk. Then, Damocles knew.

It was not the old copper that had dealt the damage.

"The aconite," he whispered quietly. "Blessed wolfsbane."

That was it. The answer he had been searching for his entire career. The aconite, the dangerous herb from Muggle myth, was the solution for the werewolves after all. While it did not end the cycle, there was no doubt that the aconite was an effective agent in stopping the violent urges. Maybe it could lessen the need to bite, to tear, to seek revenge.

The werewolf could remain a man while in that wretched body; a cursed body, yes, but the man would no longer lose control when the moon cast the shadow. The Stokely Ward could finally shut its doors, no longer needing to just keep the patients' darkest secret.

Damocles broke into a wide, genuine smile for the first time in years as he bent carefully over the copper cauldron to check on the number. He would start brewing an identical potion in the morning. Footsteps of other Healers were echoing down the hallway and help was on the way as Damocles dipped his quill in the ink and began writing in his Healer's log.

_There was no lie in that old wives' tale. Aconite tames the beast._


	3. 1959: Those Hideous Scars

_"How is he still alive? Just look at him."_

_"Everyone's talking about it. If the Daily Prophet - and Merlin forbid the Ministry - ever caught wind of what happened last night, we'd be finished. Even most of the Healers here don't really know what happens in this place on a full moon."_

_"Is that right? That Belby killed a werewolf in his ward? That's what I heard this morning."_

_"I don't know what to believe. Look at that face though . . . clearly he fought with one something terrible. Hard to imagine the wolf taking a worse beating than Belby here."_

_"Belby. I don't envy him. I patched him up as best I could, but he'll have those scars forever. No one saw him early enough. If we'd only known what was going on sooner. I mean, he's just seconds away from another ward."_

_"No one keeps up with what happens in Belby's line of work. The fact that he didn't get contaminated is beyond me. All claws. No bite. Makes you wonder how he managed that. Artie found him this morning, you know. He had crawled out of the Howling Hall, tracking blood all over until he passed out. If he stayed where he was we never would have found him in time."_

_"Is he even glad we found him?"_

_"Hmmmph. He'll just be upset we didn't wake him up so he could show us how to properly heal himself."_

Alive?

Yes. Yes, it would appear so.

The world was blinding bright as Damocles Belby's eyes fluttered open for the first time since . . . when? Visions of his most recent memories instantly flooded his consciousness, and his heart raced as he once again saw the werewolf bursting through its prison door. The horrible screams and howls from the patients echoed throughout the hallway as Damocles turned and ran for his life.

His worst nightmare had suddenly become reality. He was going to be ripped to pieces by a monster. Alone. And no one would care.

As he tore down the hall toward the exit, the memories became muddled and confusing. Had he tripped on something? Had the werewolf caught his leg? He was on the ground with nothing but his wand, staring certain death in the face as the werewolf lunged at him. There was a fierce scramble on the flagstone floor and unspeakable pain. He'd kicked out and shouted a hex - he couldn't remember what - and then . . . what then?

With a physical jerk, he returned to reality. A white-washed private Healing room. An uncomfortable bed. A cold clammy sweat soaking the linens from his recent flashback. A terrible full-body ache. No visitors in sight, though a few Healers had at least left hand-written notes on his nightstand. Well, maybe just three or four. He did not have many friends.

As his heart rate slowly ticked back to its normal rate, Damocles noticed one of his his eyes was not opening all the way. With a grunt of effort, he eased his right arm painfully free of the restrictive sheets and slowly moved his hand up to the side of his face. As a Healer, nothing felt normal to the touch. He didn't have to see to know something was dreadfully wrong.

His skin was burning hot and very swollen. He moved his fingers down his cheek and gasped audibly in pain when he discovered a gaping wound. How bad was it? Most of him didn't want to know but -

"Mirror!" Damocles shouted with all the energy his tired body could muster, aware of the unusual panic in his voice. "I need a mirror!"

After a few seconds of silence, Damocles heard footsteps in the hall before Pan Revlinger appeared at the doorway. Thankfully, it was someone competent, instead of one of the idiots St. Mungo's usually hired. They had joined the hospital at almost the same time. Revlinger had specialized in curse-related maladies, so they saw each other frequently.

"Ah, Belby, I see that your injuries have not affected your charming voice," Revlinger said as he took a seat next to the bed. He looked exhausted from a day's work; Damocles had no idea what time it was but guessed it must be about time for the evening shift.

Damocles thrust his free hand toward his coworker, in no mood for jokes or pleasantries. "Mirror. Now."

"Are you certain?" Revlinger asked. "You only just woke up."

"If you say that, it must be terrible," Damocles said. He swallowed resolutely, though Revlinger surely saw the slight tremor of fear in his extended hand. "I've got to know, Rev. Give me the mirror."

With a resigned sigh, Revlinger retrieved a small mirror from a nearby nightstand. He paused before handing it over. "You won't like what you see. And I'm sorry."

Damocles closed his eyes as he positioned the mirror in front of him. When he looked at the new man staring staring back at him, he was disgusted. He wanted to start retching on the spot. Every day in St. Mungo's he had witnessed terrible injuries and worse, but this was far different.

This was him.

While he had avoided the teeth of the beast, he had not dodged its claws in time. Four ragged, crimson slashes carved their way down his face from his temple practically to his jawline. How he had not lost his eye was no small miracle. The entire right side of his face was flushed pink and strained from the swelling, practically like a balloon ready to burst from the pressure.

After the initial shock of his appearance came the wave of anger. He had healed dozens of near-fatal cuts without so much as a hairline-sized reminder. Who had been so blessedly lazy? Had an intern tried his hand at emergency care? His face was unmistakably ruined.

"Wha - what is this, Rev?" Damocles demanded. "My face! Which idiot couldn't figure this out?"

"Calm down!" Revlinger snapped right back, taking the mirror off the bed before it shattered. He was one of the only Healers would dare argue toe-to-toe with Damocles. "You were bleeding to death in Artie's hall at four in the morning. You're a very lucky man to have survived what you did."

"Have you ever treated deep wounds before? It's not hard!" Damocles exclaimed loudly as he mimed pouring potions together with his free arm, though the movement made his joints ache terribly.

"I knew the first conversation with the fully conscious you would be as nice as a summer walk through the daisies!" Revlinger practically shouted, matching Damocles's volume. "You know I'm one of the most best Healers in this hospital. More importantly, I'm the only one of those who can put up with you! Answer this instead: have you ever cleaned up a werewolf-inflicted wound before?"

Damocles was quiet for a moment. "Only for lycanthropy patients. Why?"

"For those who aren't cursed, the scarring is much worse," Revlinger explained. "I've only seen this a handful of times. Your case was additionally difficult because you were minutes away from death. There's only so much facial . . . rearranging that any of us dared attempt given your condition."

Well, that was it.

Permanent disfigurement.

There was a long, understood pause. A growing part of Damocles wished he'd never looked, as if his face would be perfectly fine if he could avoid seeing his reflection for the rest of his life. A rather self-pitying thought invaded his mind.

"I'm only twenty-six years old," Damocles said almost timidly. "What woman could find this remotely acceptable?"

"The swelling will go down in the next few days," Revlinger said, trying to reassure him any way he could.

"Why did Poppy say no?" Damocles asked no one as he leaned back miserably on his pillows. He thought back briefly to the ring she had rejected a few years back; he had immediately thrown the family heirloom straight into the Ministry fountain. "At least she could understand what happened to me. You . . . her . . . Artie . . . So few people know what I face every month."

"You can request a different post any time," Revlinger said, clearly trying to sidestep the issue of failed romance. "I can't fathom why you would want to spend another night down there, especially after what happened."

"It's what I was assigned," Damocles said stubbornly, though every full moon he cursed his decision to stay with the werewolves. Cursed among the cursed.

Revlinger leaned forward and paused for a second in case any other Healer was within earshot of the door. And they probably were, considering how loud and animated the two of them had been seconds before.

"You know good and well what your lycanthropy assignment is all about," Revlinger said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe it was a cruel joke, maybe a power play, but you know good and well the heads of this place didn't assign you to the Howling Hall because they thought you could cure lycanthropy. Get out while you have the sanity to do something useful here."

"Quitting is admitting they're right," Damocles said. "It's admitting I'm not as smart as I think I am."

"But getting out of there is the one decision that might keep you alive," Revlinger responded. "I don't know how Artie even got you to a bed after he found you, a bleeding mess right in the middle of the hall. If he weren't heading to make a cup of tea, you'd be . . . gone. We see death all the time, but it concerns us - those of us who know what's going on - that any accident like last night could kill you and dozens more."

Begrudgingly, Revlinger was right about so many things. Had Damocles not stopped the werewolf dead in its tracks - somehow - the result would have been unimaginable. A whole ward could have been attacked by the time other Healers could arrive on the grisly scene. Damocles felt the weight of those words and the sudden sense of physical fatigue from the conversation. His body needed more rest.

It felt as if he had hit an unscalable wall. Hadn't he just been shouting and pretending to stir potions from thin air? Instead of answering Revlinger, he nodded softly and to allow Revlinger to finish his sermon.

Revlinger clearly suspected Damocles's fading energy. He moved back in his chair, preparing to leave. "You need to think about why are staying with lycanthropy, you know? It's been the most baffling, painful curses for centuries. Are you just going to stay the keeper of the Howling Hall to prove our superiors wrong, or do you think you'll actually make progress?"

"Can it be both?" Damocles asked. It sounded like a joke, but he honestly felt both ways.

"You've been at this for five full years, and you need to look at the progress," Revlinger continued sternly. "What use will it be if you waste your entire lifetime on this for nothing? And who knows? After that escape, they might just shut down the Howling Hall for good."

"Too big a risk to close the door to those patients," Damocles said. "There are some powerful people connected with that ward. Well-connected, angry people could tell Ministry what's going on down there every full moon . . . If the Howling Hall provides one thing, it's that the few wealthy werewolves that exist can at least transform with a shred of dignity in their cell . . . as opposed to rampaging through their mansion."

"Wealthy werewolves?" Revlinger asked, suddenly curious.

Damocles must have been exhausted if he was prattling about his patients' confidential information. His guard was down and he'd best stop before he mentioned any names. Or said anything else embarrassing about Poppy. He closed his eyes and waved his free hand dismissively.

"Forget it. I can't say anything more."

"But you'll think about what I said?" Revlinger said as he stood and straightened his Healer robes.

"I'll consider it . . . but I can be blessedly stubborn. And contrary. And committed to what I do in there. And . . . I'm . . . I'm just tired. Rev, I can't keep my eyes open any longer," Damocles admitted. He was fading quickly.

"Yes, Belby," Revlinger was practically out the door before dimming the lights. "I'll be back to check on you later."

The lights in the room dimmed magically, and Damocles leaned back against his pillow. Thoughts of his new, disgusting reflection clouded his mind until finally, mercifully, the black calm of sleep arrived.

Alive, but now what?

That was Revlinger's question, wasn't it? It still needed answering.

After five days of being cooped up in his private room, Damocles confirmed what he had always suspected at St. Mungo's: bed rest was awful. It was largely unproductive and time-wasting, particularly when his office was only a two-minute walk away. In some cases, maybe bed rest was more unbearable than the actual illness or injury.

Revlinger was his only frequent visitor, even if it was only to administer potions and make sure Damocles was staying on his best behavior. (Revlinger also managed to sneak him a bottle of firewhiskey last evening). Three or four other Healers had stopped by to wish him the best, all of them unable to stop gawking at his dashing new looks, of course.

Two Healers who visited together were completely unaware of what had really happened; they had heard Damocles had been brutally attacked by a territorial, wild hippogriff while conducting field study. Revlinger said he was doing his best to perpetuate that myth instead of the outlandish tales of a werewolf loose in St. Mungo's, though Damocles had wished he had selected a more fearsome creature.

Speaking of visitors, his parents had not bothered to see him yet. They were spending the holidays in Italy. Admittedly, they probably would have rushed back home if there was going to be a funeral, but if they had heard their son was safely recovering at St. Mungo's, there was no need to hurry to London. The Belby family largely had no idea what Damocles did at St. Mungo's. They would be absolutely puzzled to see his scars at Christmas.

In his time trapped in bed, Damocles had at least been able to start piecing together what had happened during the attack. His coworkers had taken the liberty to throw away his bloodied and torn green Healer robes (understandably enough), but they had left behind the boots he had been wearing that night he was running for his life.

He only wore those particular boots on nights he worked in the Howling Hall. They had thick rubberized soles like the ones usually favored by potioneers while using volatile, ingredients. Since he brewed most of his experimental treatment potions in the Howling Hall, it was by far the safest (though not the most attractive). He was already facing death, but there was no need to risk burning a hole through his foot too. The choice had saved his live.

Upon inspection of his old shoes, it was immediately clear how he had avoided the cursed bite. He remembered kicking out at the werewolf after tumbling to the ground. Judging by the frightening large teeth marks gouged into the sole of his right shoe, he could only guess that he had caught the werewolf's jaws at the perfect angle where the beast found rubber instead of flesh.

While he had distracted the face of the werewolf for a precious second or two, he had not escaped its claws, which had found his face and practically his entire left side, which he had discovered when he woke up a second time and was alert enough to fully assess his condition. Those scars would be easy enough to hide. It was his face he had to live with everyone seeing, though as Revlinger had promised, the swelling had reduced substantially.

Still. It was permanent.

What spell had stopped the werewolf? For that, Damocles still had no idea, since his wand revealed that the last spell he'd cast had been a quick Healing charm as he was losing consciousness in the hallway.

As he turned the damaged boot over in his hands for what felt like the thousandth time, there was a tentative knock at the door. He looked up and his eyes widened in surprise.

The escaped werewolf himself was standing in the doorframe, awkwardly shifting his weight from side to side.

The patient - a middle-aged wizard who always stayed in the seventh cell to the left - still had that wild look about him: lightly scratched face, almost windblown hair and a vacant gaze. Every lycanthropy sufferer reacted differently to the transformations. Some were exhausted the next few days; others, like this man, looked like he had just stepped indoors from a wild thunderstorm.

Damocles made it a practice to not know too much about his patients' personal lives. It was safest that way, just in case he was ever coerced over firewhiskey to name names or divulge the details of his profession. Still, it was nearly impossibly not to know this man. He was Barnabas Greenwell, one of the most beloved columnists for the _Daily Prophet._("Beloved" being defined as less likely to receive Howlers and death threats than the other Prophet scribes.)

"Well, this is a bit of a role reversal, isn't it?" Damocles said to break the tension. "I'm not usually visited by my own patients."

"It's unusual circumstances on all counts," Greenwell admitted as he took Damocles' statement as an invitation to enter the room.

Greenwell dragged the visitor's chair up to Damocles bedside and took a seat. He exhaled and clapped his hands together nervously a few times. It was clear that it had taken all the reporter's bravery to bring himself through the hospital for this moment. And it was also apparent his visit was a purposeful one; he was not hear to

Damocles felt his muscles, his whole being, involuntarily tense up. Fear? That was stupid. This was a harmless man. Totally average in every aspect. Yet this was the same man who grew fangs and dark, expressionless eyes. The same man - or make that beast? - who nearly killed him in the Howling Hall.

"Apologies will not repair what happened to you that night . . . what I did," Greenwell finally said.

Damocles held up his a hand at once. "You don't need to be sorry about what happened. It wasn't you. Not really anyway."

"You can say that all you want, but I'll never feel right about it," Greenwell said.

"I understand what the dangers are," Damocles said, in a much more patient tone than he ever possessed when dealing with coworkers.

"You almost died!" Greenwell snapped, suddenly more terrified than nervous. "I . . . I almost killed another man. Again! I know that I had no control over what I did, but Merlin! I saw what happened with my own eyes! It was me!"

The last haunting words hung in the air. _It was me!_ It had all the tone of a regretful murderer confessing. Though propped up by pillows and confined to his bed, Damocles took in the story like he was on Healer duty. He had listened to similar tales, but he never played such an important character in the stories.

It was as if a key had unlocked part of Damocles mind. Greenwell's fear seemed much more believable. Now that Damocles himself had suffered a brush with death, he finally understood what it must have felt like to be a werewolf. To be terrified of injuring someone but to be hopelessly unable to stop the animal within.

"I haven't attacked anyone since . . . the first time I transformed." Greenwell pondered on, his voice starting to quiver. "I . . . I was just thirty at the time. My family had no idea what was going to happen . . . Not really, anyway. We'd never seen it in person. No one had. You'd never believe! I went absolutely wild that night. No restraints. Once the moon went full, everyone was prey. I . . . I killed my own uncle. Right there in his own home. The man who practically raised me couldn't stop me!"

Greenwell trailed off and began dabbing at a stream of tears running down his cheek with the edge his sleeve. Damocles put a hand on his shoulder in reassurance, about as much physical contact he ever allowed with a patient.

"We don't have to talk about this," Damocles said, pretty sure given his own physical condition, he did not what to listen to it.

"Hear me out," Greenwell said, somehow able to rein back his emotions enough to speak. "I didn't come here for you to feel sorry for me because I have sad stories."

Damocles nodded and let him continue.

"That night I attacked my family, they were somehow able to stop me before anything else happened but . . . to live with that memory every day is almost unbearable," Greenwell said. "The thought that I almost had more blood on my hands - I, I can't fathom how I could manage if that had happened.

"In my line of work, I talk to witches and wizards all over the country, but nothing has scared me more than coming here today and face what I almost killed. Do you know what you are to all of us in the Howling Hall?"

Damocles felt himself rein back his sarcasm but unsuccessfully. "I'm the failing Healer who locks you in your cells every night."

"You are our hope," Greenwell corrected with all seriousness.

"Why?" Damocles asked. "I haven't done anything! Just about the only progress I'm making is learning to make sure all the doors are bolting properly."

"Give yourself credit, man!" Greenwell said, looking practically indignant at Damocles' lack of faith. "We've all been in that cursed ward since before you even started Hogwarts. We may even be there after you've been transferred somewhere else. But if you could see the parade of idiots who've been in charge of the Howling Hall over the years, you'd be amazed. Locking doors is about all they could ever do. Washed up lowlives who'd messed up in some other part of the building. Just there to guard the doors.

"We know you're different. When I first visited your office, I remember you walking down the hallway diagnosing about five diseases of patients as they passed by. It's a gift! Merlin knows you're too good for us! You, Belby, you are what we've needed to find a cure."

Damocles felt his face suddenly grow warm and his chest filled with pride at Greenwell's gushing comments. Yet in the praise from the reporter, there was something else unmistakable: a plea to action.

"I will try," Damocles said, knowing it sounded woefully pathetic compared to Greenwell's rehearsed speech.

"We can't change the past, but we can save our future, Belby," Greenwell said.

The reporter gave a sad sort of smile before leaving. "I'll see you next full moon."

Alive, but now what?

Now there was purpose.

When was the last time he had that?

Damocles lightly traced his scar across his face with his hand and felt guilt painfully well up inside him. After Greenwell's visited, the jagged disfigurement seemed like nothing compared to what his patients suffered every lunar cycle, something far worse than a physical wound. They lived fearful, mostly hopeless lives.

Scar or no scary, by working in the Howling Hall, Damocles was guaranteed to live an unusually lonely and strange existence anyway. No one could really understand it without living it. Not even Poppy.

The itch to do lycanthropy work had returned in full, but there were no Healers in sight who could fetch his books from his study. He had lost a few work days between full moons that he used to brew and test new potions. Damocles sat in irritated quiet, waiting for someone to walk by his door.

No one. Typical nonsense on a Friday afternoon.

With a heavy sigh, Damocles resigned himself to journey to his office alone. It was only a two-minute walk for a healthy man. Surely he could - at the very worst - crawl his way there. He had managed to pull himself out of the Howling Hall without even being conscious of it. This seemed easy by comparison.

"Have to do everything for myself," Damocles growled irritatedly, though his complaint was shortened by a quick, gulping breath of pain as he put weight on his right leg for the first time in days.

Stumbling, bumbling and clinging desperately to a wall, Damocles slowly inched his way down the hall, his body aching every step of the way. Revlinger would have thrown an absolute fit if he had seen him in this state, slipping helplessly on his own two feet and wearing a patient's robe.

It took him several breaks (and one near fainting spell), but Damocles finally rounded a corner and could see his office doorframe. He smiled victoriously as he lowered himself on a nearby bench before making his last shuffle to his room. He proved Revlinger wrong about needed extra days in bed. And he was not finished surprising people either.

He recorded a perfect score on his entrance exam despite brawling at a Quidditch pitch the night before. He had learned to identify a hundred wizarding ailments while his classmates were still reading the textbooks. Now, he had cheated death against a werewolf, astonishing all those who saw him that night.

No doubt it would take a certain toughness, every ounce of wit, and extreme work ethic to find a cure for lycanthropy. But if any Healer had all the right tools and experience to solve a riddle considered unanswerable to all his peers, it was him.

He was Damocles Belby.

He was just the man for the job.


	4. 1944: The House of Riddle

"Did you memorize those fourth-year Charms?"

"Yes, sir," Damocles Belby responded breathlessly as he huffed to keep up with his father's quick pace.

"Good good. Now keep up."

They were moving so rapidly through the nearly empty station, their solitary journey accentuated by the crisp clicking sound of his father's metal-tipped boots echoing faintly down the hallways. Damocles scarcely had time to inspect anything at all as his father muttered under his breath about that "Muggle War." His parents, who had probably never properly met a Muggle in their whole lives, talked about it now and again at home over dinner. The war must have been important if even they were discussing it.

Damocles caught a glimpse of a discarded newspaper crumpled on the side of the walkway with an unmoving photo of men in strange uniforms, but he didn't bother asking his father about it as they passed.

They were on a schedule, after all. Like always.

Before long, they had passed through a magical barrier and stepped onto the famed Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Damocles had been here a few times before when he was very young and his half-sister, Hestia, was just finishing her studies at Hogwarts. The scarlet engine looked just as impressive and inviting as it did before. But instead of just watching the Hogwarts Express from the platform, he would finally be a passenger.

His father straightened his own robes and looked around at the other adults on the platform, sizing them up before glancing back down at Damocles seriously. "Did you also read your history text? And the other books your mother gave you?"

"Yes . . . and yes, sir," Damocles said while he fought the powerful urge to roll his eyes; he'd already answered that question a dozen times. At least.

"Good boy," his father said, breaking out a thin-lipped smile of approval. His expression then turned smug. "You'll be the smartest first year there. Lestrange was bragging about how his son learned how to name all the Goblin Wars in order the other week. You could do that when you were four. I'll bet the Boot children can't even do that."

"So it's a contest then?" Damocles asked.

"A contest?"

"Between the parents . . . to see of us is the best?" Damocles clarified.

His father snorted a laugh. "Of course not! We have better things to do than that."

Damocles laughed too, but inside, he knew he was absolutely right. It wasn't hard to piece those clues together. At every dinner party, Damocles would be asked to recite an ancient poem in Greek or sing an old, complicated Quidditch ballad for the adults. He could memorize just about anything if given a few minutes, a gift his father loved showing off.

iBehold the genius boy!/i Damocles suddenly imagined his life as some boring sideshow in a traveling band, reeling off ingredients to questionable potions banned by the Ministry. Maybe two or three people would feel sorry enough for him to toss a few knuts into the hat to watch him perform. He nearly laughed out loud. Who would possibly pay for that?

His mind was jerked back to the platform when he received a harder-than-playful tap on the shoulder.

"Are you still with us, boy?" His father asked sternly.

Damocles felt his face grow hot in embarrassment. "Sorry, sir."

"Let's get your things on the train before I need to get to work," his father said as he rolled Damocles' trunk toward the train. "Important Ministry business today, you know. I'm sorry your mother couldn't see you off today with your brother being ill and all."

"Or so he says," Damocles grumbled.

The two of them loaded Damocles' belongings onto the train, his father giving him too much last-minute advice, too quickly. Not even Damocles had time to process everything, especially with dozens of students talking all around them and carrying so many interesting pets and magical objects that all seemed to scream distraction.

". . . and then the Sorting is tonight," his father continued as Damocles resumed his attention. "You'll be one of the first to go - it's always alphabetical - so remember to do exactly what the professors tell you. It's all fun. You'll see."

Damocles could scarcely hide his smile in spite of himself. He had desperately wanted to go to Hogwarts ever since he had first watched his half-sister Hestia board the train from the platform. Finally all those incantations and charms he had memorized by heart would be put to use.

"One more thing before you leave . . . if I can find it, that is," his father trailed off as he fished around in the pocket of his robes. His eyes lit up as his hand apparently struck gold. "Here's a lucky charm from one old Ravenclaw to a new one."

His father pressed a small object into Damocles hand. Expecting something great, he couldn't help but be a little disappointed. The gift was just an old blue button with a faded and chipped letter "R" painted on the center in still-sparkling silver paint.

The blue button begged an obvious question.

"What if I get sorted into a different house?"

His father laughed again at the very suggestion. "Don't worry about it, son. You'll be in Ravenclaw. I was. Your mother was. Your uncle and cousins. Your grandfather too."

Damocles wasn't convinced. He never was.

"That doesn't matter though, right?" Damocles asked. "Sometimes even twins are sorted into different houses. I read that in a book you gave me."

"Trust me."

"But that still means there's a chance —"

"Just get on the train," his father said, a little sternly.

Damocles could tell his father was running out of patience. He'd heard the tone before. Many times. The conversation had clearly reached its end, so Damocles murmured a quick goodbye and gave his father as grown-up a hug as he could.

Just as he was about to take his first foothold on the lowest rung of the stepladder when a surge of older students pushed passed him. He looked up and instantly spotted the leader of the group, a tall impressive-looking boy. Someone who knew he was important. He seemed very familiar too. Where had he seen him?

"Tom Riddle . . . looks just like he did in the Prophet," Damocles' father mused aloud, essentially answering his unasked question.

Riddle saved the whole school last year, the newspaper had proclaimed. The Daily Prophet was a little vague on the details (no surprises there), but Riddle had apparently single-handedly apprehended a student and some deadly kind of beast that had been terrorizing the school. One girl had even been killed last May, a fact that strangely hadn't deterred Damocles' desire to go to Hogwarts in the least. In fact, it seemed all the more exciting somehow.

"Now that's a boy you should be watching out for," his father said, pointing to Riddle's retreating entourage. "That's success right there. See how everyone follows him around. There's no reason that shouldn't be you."

With that, his father nudged him up the stairs to the train, uttered one last goodbye before stepping back into the crowd of other parents giving their final hugs and well wishes.

As he took the final few steps onto the Hogwarts Express, Damocles felt a broad smile creep warmly onto his face. After a lifetime of waiting (if eleven years can still be considered a lifetime), he was ready to put his wand to work.

Nervous? No.

Well, maybe a little.

Hours ago, he had felt the surging excitement of starting school. Now he was facing the true beginning, the first test as he stood alongside the rest of the new students in Hogwarts' Great Hall. He felt his stomach tie in knots as he awaited his fate.

In moments, the famous sorting ceremony would begin.

What did he have to be nervous about anyway?

As the Sorting Hat began its song about the Houses (his father told him the words were different every year), Damocles' reached deep into his robe pocket and felt the blue button he had been given only hours before.

Ravenclaw.

Well, of course that's the House where he would be ending up. Every proper Belby was sorted there. Besides, he felt certain he was smart enough to get picked. On the train ride, he had sized himself up with some of the other first years. He was already certain he would make top marks in every class that mattered. Maybe not that Divination nonsense later on, but everything else.

"Belby, Damocles."

He was first.

As he walked up carefully to the Sorting Hat, Damocles heard the faint twitter of laughs after he was called. Of course it was a terrible first name. He'd just turned eleven, and still no one in his family had found a good nickname for him. "Dam" was a bit too close to swearing in the Belby household.

Quickly as he could, Damocles placed the hat on his head, just so he didn't have to look at the older students gazing at him. The brim of the fabled Sorting Hat completely covered his eyes and he suddenly heard an excitable voice pipe up in his head.

"Another Belby! But ... not quite as easy to place as some of the others. There's no doubt you are bright, more than most heads I have sat on the last few years - though don't tell them I said that!"

Damocles felt himself give a small, nervous smile at the compliment while the Hat continued.

"Yes, a Ravenclaw choice would seem obvious, but there are some other interesting things I see in here too. Very interesting. You have a good deal of talent. A knack for problem solving. A sense of fairness. Above all though, I see you want to be great. There's no better place to learn about that these days than in the 'House of Riddle.' SLYTHERIN!"

Slytherin?

Damocles' felt his stomach lurch uncomfortably as he removed the hat and numbly followed the sounds of cheering leading to the Slytherin table, a place he never expected to walk moments before. He took a seat in absolute disbelief as a few older students gave him a congratulatory pat on the back.

It had all happened so fast. Whatever Damocles had been expecting, this wasn't it. Not at a table with crackling green and silver candles with their winding, serpentine holders. He did not dare consider what his parents would think of the Sorting Hat's decision. Maybe he father wouldn't let him return home for the holidays.

Before turning his attention back to the sorting, Damocles curiously glanced down the Slytherin table. By chance, he caught the eye of Tom Riddle near the end of the row. Riddle stared back for a few moments, sizing him up. He followed with a small nod of approval, as if Damocles had passed some sort of acceptance test.

Damocles nodded back as the next student was sorted ("HUFFLEPUFF!") and a different crowd of students applauded. He clapped a few times out of politeness, following the lead of an older girl seated next to him.

Though still stunned by the Hat's decision moments ago, Damocles could help but feel a little pleased to have been noticed by Riddle himself.

After all, if you are going to live in the House of Riddle, you might as well be on the good side of the only person who mattered.

Slytherin? It could be worse. The Sorting Hat could have been so underwhelmed by his mind and personality that he could have been placed in Hufflepuff. At least here, he was surrounded by people who seemed ambitious, at least judging from what he heard at the table over dinner. Most of the other new Slytherins seemed decent enough too.

After the Headmaster gave his final instructions and there was a loud shuffle as hundreds of students rose to their feet. The Slytherin prefects waved their hands to get the attention of the first years. They would be traveling together.

Damocles reached deeply once more into his robe pocket as he followed his fellow first years to their new home, the dungeons.

He fished out his father's Ravenclaw button as he walked, briefly wondering how many Belbys had carried around this heirloom in the past. Centuries maybe? The silver, cracked "R" almost seem to taunt back at him. Unlike Tom Riddle, the button - the Belby family - had judged him unworthy somehow.

His family would not let him hear the end of this. Not for seven years at least while he was at Hogwarts.

They would say he was not smart enough. Not deep enough of a thinker. Not studious enough while he was growing up at home.

Of course, they would probably not say those things to he face. But he would know what they would think behind those disapproving faces. His father most of all. His father had made Damocles learn ingredients of dreamless sleep potions at age five, among other varied topics.

He clenched the blue button angrily in his fist as he continued after the other first years. What did a stupid button know? An old talking hat knew better!

As the Slytherins passed a grimy headless suit of armor, Damocles threw the button angrily at it. He'd never been a great shot but by some stroke of luck, it was a perfect hit. The button dropped right into the top of the armor. He heard a tiny rattling clink as the landed in the body.

The most satisfying noise he'd heard all day.

Damocles straightened his back and felt a deep sense of relief. The button was gone.

The Sorting Hat put him in Slytherin, and he would find out why.


End file.
